Just a Game
by SpaggyB
Summary: Anderson blames himself for Sherlocks suicide, and while in the grip of a drunken rage, desperately tries to convince an unmoving Sargent Donovan that there's more to the case than meets the eye.


A sharp clatter rang through the silent room as yet another whiskey glass failed to find purchase on the sopping wooden table, the dark liquid inside adding to the mess and overflowing again onto the carpet. It had happened so many times already that night that Anderson didn't even bother to pick the glass up, instead allowing it to roll aimlessly onto the floor before stopping at his foot. A moment passed in which he gazed at it, drunken and hopeless, his empty eyes staring at the dull crystal as if it weren't even there. As if it had finally rolled so far across his catastrophic living room floor that it had reached a world other than the one in which he sat.

A world in which Sherlock Holmes still lived.

A sudden anger gripped him, roaring and fierce, and he brought his boot down upon the whiskey glass, smashing it, sending tiny fragments all over the room. Had he not already expended so much of his energy trashing the place earlier, he would have even let a cry of guilt soaked anguish escape his strangled throat. All that came instead was a broken sobbing as he bowed his head to his hands, his elbows folding under the weight until his cheek came to rest on the cold table. Closing his watering eyes against the subtle alcoholic fumes, he let the sorrow wash over him, the knowledge of what he had done covering him like a nightmarish blanket.

A muted banging announced the arrival of someone unknown, but Anderson didn't raise his head. He knew who had come, for he, in his maddened, intoxicated state, had text them many times that night, piling on the accusations in a desperate attempt to share the blame. Now they were here however, he realised just how much he wanted to be alone.

A hand grabbed the back of his sweater, and pulled him back upright in his chair. He swayed gently, almost serenely, opening his eyes to see the furious Sgt. Donovan leaning over him, and was mildly relieved to see the hint of distress behind the disgust on her face.

"Phil, what the hell is wrong with you?" Her voice was harsh, raw with barely controlled emotion. Anderson felt the corner of his mouth tug ever so slightly.

"Oh Sally." Her name slurred in his crooked mouth. "Sally, Sally, Sally. What have we done?"

Sally let go of Andersons jumper and took a step back, her eyes dropping to the floor. Even Anderson could see she was wrestling with something dark, something awful in her mind. She pouted angrily, darting her eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at the drunk in front of her.

"Jesus Phil, how much have you had? It stinks in here."

Anderson chuckled.

"I'd offer you a glass but, y'know," he waved a limp arm around haphazardly. "Most of it's soaked into the carpet by now. Should've come earlier…"

The arm he had waved dropped awkwardly to his side, unbalancing him. Sally instinctively caught his shoulder to stop him toppling to the ground, and jumped with surprise when her hand was caught by Anderson, his grip tight enough to pin her in place. Her wide eyes found his, and what she saw was pure madness.

When he spoke, his voice was a chilling whisper.

"We killed him Sally. Its our fault. We killed Sherlock Holmes."

Sally was frozen to the spot, her body shaking as his empty eyes bored into her petrified face. She tried weakly to pull her hand away, but his grip only tightened and she felt his blunt nails dig into her wrist. She winced, desperate to get away from him.

"Anderson get a grip! We didn't kill anyone, Sherlock killed himself!"

Her words only caused him to laugh, sharply and without humour. Keeping a grip on her wrist, Anderson twisted out of his seat to tower above her, the alcohol in his system making him unbalanced, and to Sally, frightening. The Sargent grimaced as his putrid breath washed over her.

"No, Sally, we killed him. We played right into that _bastard_ Moriarty's hands. We turned against Sherlock, we _drove him_ to jump off that roof."

Anger now flared in Sally, and she wrenched her hand out of Andersons grip, clutching it to her chest and taking a step back.

"For God's sake Anderson, let it go!" Her voice rose to a shout. "You're a fucking policemen, you _know_ the case! Sherlock Holmes _invented_ Moriarty, and killed the actor when he tried to come clean! You _know _thi-"

"No! No no no no no NO!" Anderson was shouting now, swaying on the spot where Sally left him. "That's what he _wants _you to think cant you see it? Cant ANYBODY see it? Look!"

He reached an unsteady hand down to the coffee table, and clutched at a sodden diary. Sally, having seen this book before, sighed angrily and ran a hand through her wild curls.

"Anderson, not this again…"

Anderson cut her off with a flailing hand, flipping through the chaotic pages until coming to rest on an entry from a few weeks before. He picked the book up from the table and shoved it at Sally, who turned her eyes away.

"Read it Sally. Read it. Richard. Brook. Do you know what that means, Sal? Do you _know_ what "Richard Brook" means?"

Sally sighed, well familiar with this routine.

"It might translate to "Reichen Bach" in German, I know."

"No no no, it _does_ translate to "Riechenbach" in German. It's a play on words, he _meant_ to do that!"

Sally turned her now tired face to look at Anderson, barely standing, in the middle of the room. She didn't even have to say anything to make him understand she still wasn't convinced. Anderson, sensing her doubt, flicked to another page as she turned to leave.

"Goodnight Phil. Try to get some sleep.."

"No Sally wait! There's more Sally," he stumbled across the room to lean awkwardly in the doorway, stopping her path. "Sally, listen to me, I've found more okay."

Sally shook her head, trying to duck around him. After feigning a few times, she managed to slip past the drunken man, and quickly made a dash for the stairs. However, Anderson refused to give up, following her, and shouting lines from his book.

"Just wait, he got letters, he was sent breadcrumbs, and a book of fairy tales, and look Sal, Mrs Hudson said they were sent a burnt gingerbread man from a person with an odd _German sounding_ _name_."

Sally tried to ignore him as she cleared the stairs, reaching for the doorhandle. Anderson grew desperate.

"No, Sally, please don't go just listen! Sally, listen to me!"

Taken by anger, guilt and desperation, Anderson shoved Sally against the door, pinning her by the neck. He leant in close, not noticing her trembling beneath his hand.

"It was all a game to him Sally," his words hissed in her ear "why can't anyone see that? It was all a game."

Sally took a deep breath in to stead herself, now aware that Anderson was more drunk and reckless than she had thought.

"Phil, let go of me. You are hurting me, let go."

Anderson blinked at her words, as if suddenly woken from a dream to realise he was not where he thought. He slowly took his hand away, looking at it like it wasn't his own. Sally didn't turn to look at him as he stumbled backwards, tripping on the bottom step and falling clumsily to the stairs.

"It was all a game."

She could hear him whispering to himself as she opened the door, the sudden blast of cold air the shock she needed to clear her head. She left him there on the steps, drunken, dazed and completely delusional, whispering to himself like the madman he had become. She knew she had to report him to Lestrade, and that he would lose his job, but in that moment, all she cared about was escape. The door closed, and she drifted out into the cold night, shaken, frightened, disturbed but above all, followed, by the whispers of a madman she once called her friend.

_"It was all a game."_


End file.
